


That French Thing

by francefrancerevolution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Awkwardness, Fluff, France - Freeform, French Kissing, I guess they're American, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:24:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/francefrancerevolution/pseuds/francefrancerevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Grantaire decides to win Enjolras' heart by spending more time with him and discussing French stuff with him, he discovers that he likes France a lot more than he ever thought he would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That French Thing

It was Courfeyrac’s idea, so it was surprising that everything turned out as well as it did.

“If you want to get to get into Enjolras’ pants—”

“I’m not trying to get into his pants,” Grantaire objected, knowing full well that his guilty blush said otherwise.

“You totally are,” Jehan said from his position in Courfeyrac’s lap.

Courferyac shushed them both. “You have to get into his heart first.”

Grantaire wasn’t certain that Enjolras even had a heart. He probably just had a chunk of ice in his chest instead, a chunk of ice in the shape of a heart that somehow pumped blood and gave him passion, but was incapable of anything else.

But. Even if Enjolras did have a heart, there was no way Grantaire was breaking into it. It would require the finest skills, the best tools. He would have to chip the ice away, piece by piece, and if he wanted Enjolras’ heart, he should have started trying years ago. All he ever seemed to do was harden it.

Just to humor Courfeyrac, he asked, “and how do you propose I do that?” Honestly, he had been expecting something far, far worse. Something involving seduction or red underwear, probably.

“You just have to get to know him better,” Courfeyrac said, and even Jehan sat up in shock. It just wasn’t like Courfeyrac to come up with solutions that didn’t involve anything elaborate and slightly sexual.

“I know Enjolras.” He knew that Enjolras was blond, blue-eyed, beautiful, charming, terrifying. He knew that Enjolras lived for justice and equality and liberty, that he liked metaphors and Robespierre and the color red.

And most importantly, he knew that Enjolras was everything that he wasn’t. That Enjolras would never love him. That Enjolras probably hated him.

“You don’t know know him. You need to get to know what he likes. His hobbies, his loves, all that.”

“Can’t you just tell me? You lived with him and Combeferre, you should know all this stuff.”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “He hardly ever came out of his room, except when Combeferre dragged him out to eat. I don’t what he did in there. He could like sewing or some shit like that, for all I know.”

Jehan giggled. “God no, not sewing. Remember when he made those tricolor rosettes for the rally? I made those because he kept stabbing himself.”

“I knew it!” Courfeyrac leaned over to kiss Jehan. “But seriously, R, there’s more to Enjolras than justice and revolution. Or . . . maybe there isn’t, but if you want to be with him, you should talk to him about justice and revolution.”

Grantaire sighed. “I guess so. It’s just . . . I don’t think we have much in common. He represents everything I’m not.”

“You’ll see.” Courfeyrac ruffled his hair, grinning a mischievous grin. “And if that fails, I have this plan involving red underwear and—”

“Bye, Courfeyrac.”  
 

* * *

  
Grantaire texted Combeferre when he got home, because Combeferre was their group’s undeniable Enjolras Expert. Combeferre was practically Enjolras’ brother, he had to know something.

And of course, he did. The next time Grantaire checked his phone, he had a long list of Things That Enjolras Liked.

_Education._  
 _Studying._  
 _Extended metaphors._  
 _History._  
 _History books._  
 _Law._  
 _Law books._  
 _Mock trials._  
 _Pontmercy jokes._  
 _Red things._  
 _Rabble-rousing._  
 _French stuff._

Combeferre had also added, “and I like moths, green tea, and Star Trek, in case you wanted to know about me, too. Though I doubt you did.”

Grantaire scanned the list. And then again. The only history he knew what art history, and he confused metaphors with similes, and how was he supposed to make a mock trial romantic? He could make jokes at Pontmercy’s expense for hours, but it wasn’t as much fun if Marius wasn’t around to hear to jokes and turn bright pink, and there was no way he was letting Marius join in on whatever he was doing with Enjolras.

“French stuff” though. When Grantaire thought of France, he thought of wine and baguettes and accordion music; he could do that. Well, not the accordion, but the wine and the bread. Mostly the wine.

French stuff it was, then.  
 

* * *

  
He didn’t tell Enjolras he was coming. Telling him would just have given him a chance to make up some excuse, or a warning to hide when he heard the knock on the door. So Grantaire didn’t tell him, and when he knocked on the door, it was answered by a completely unsuspecting Enjolras. He was wearing jeans and a baggy red sweatshirt, his hair swept back into a messy ponytail, blond curls dripping down into his face and—

“Hi!” Grantaire said, before his mind and sanity raced off without him.

“Hello,” Enjolras said, still looked confused. “Might I ask what brings you here?”

“You! I mean um . . . France.”

Enjolras arched a perfect eyebrow. “France?” But he sounded intrigued, and Grantaire’s heart thudded with hope.

“Yeah. Um, France. I’m trying to get more into it for um, art, you know? And you like France, so I thought we could um . . . hang out and do French stuff?”

“French stuff?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire nodded nervously, gesturing to his backpack. “I brought some French movies and food.”

To his shock, Enjolras nodded slowly back with approval. “I could use a break, I suppose. Come in.”

Grantaire had never seen Enjolras’ apartment. Few people had ever received the privilege, aside from Courfeyrac and Combeferre, and, back in the days when he never thought he would be lucky enough to see Enjolras’ apartment, Grantaire had made a bet with Bahorel that the apartment would be decorated with French flags and red paint.

He hoped Bahorel had forgotten about the bet, because he totally lost.

There wasn’t any red in sight. There wasn’t much color in general. There wasn’t much in the apartment in general, just a ratty couch that looked like it could fit two people, if those people were Gavroche-sized. There were some chairs pushed into the corner, probably for the rare event of company, but they had obviously been picked up at garage sales, with their rotting wood and dangerously fragile looking legs; they looked more suitable for building a barricade than for sitting. Books and papers were strewn about the apartment; across the kitchen table and in piles on the couch.

It made Grantaire sad. Because it was so barren, so dull, like something out of some abandoned house in a zombie film. Because it had never occurred to him that Enjolras was quite possibly the loneliest man in the world.

But he was here now. He was here, and Enjolras was lonely, and he had a crepe recipe in his backpack, and he was going to make everything perfect.

“I don’t have a TV,” Enjolras said suddenly.

“Of course you don’t. I brought my laptop.”

“Right,” Enjolras said, and looked strangely relieved. “Um, do you want something to drink or something? I have . . . tap water?”

Dear god, Awkward Enjolras Having to Function in Social Situations was the most adorable thing in the world.

“I brought wine.” Before Enjolras’ lips could fully curl into their disdainful sneer, Grantaire added, “it’s French wine, okay? This is for education.”

The sneer changed to a slight smile. “You’re determined today.”

“I just really love France, Apollo. Now come on, we’re making crepes.”

Enjolras snorted, but followed him into the kitchen. Grantaire set his backpack on the floor, pulling out a bottle of wine that miraculously hadn’t broken, as well as chocolate sauce and Nutella, and his dock station for his iPod, which he had stocked with a bunch of French songs the night before. Enjolras, of course, didn’t have any nice wine glasses, so Grantaire ended up dumping the wine into plastic water bottles.

“That’s so tacky,” Enjolras said, but took a sip anyway. “This is . . . nice.” He took a longer sip, closing his eyes.

“Calm down, Apollo. And if this is gonna end up being a repeat of the Drunk Karaoke Incident, please let me know in advance so I can film it this time.”

Enjolras blushed, scowling in response.

“Sit down,” Grantaire said. “Making crepes is a very delicate process and I know that you can’t even make grilled cheese, so stay out of the way.”

“I can make grilled cheese.”

“Not according to Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras slumped farther into the chair in response, crossing his arms. “At least you’re making fun of me in my own home, instead of in front of all the others.”

“It’s for your own good. You have to stay down here with us mortals somehow, and I just bring you back to Earth.”

“Do that mean you have to mock my ideas in front of everyone?”

“Someone’s gotta do it.” But Grantaire felt a twinge of guilt. He didn’t mean to mock Enjolras, not exactly. He set out with the intention of knocking him down, yes, tearing his words apart, but it was only for his own good. Enjolras needed Grantaire to fuel his passion. And yes, also because Enjolras was very cute when he was upset.

As a peace offering, Grantaire tossed the can of Nutella to Enjolras. “Here. Eat this and accept it as my apology for years of torment.”

“How do I eat it?”

“Grab a spoon— you have spoons in this kitchen, don’t you?— and scoop some out and eat it.”

“Can I at least put it on some toast?”

“No.”

Enjolras scowled, but by the time Grantaire had turned back around from checking the crepes, a huge chunk was missing from the jar and Enjolras was guiltily rubbed at his lips with the back of his hand. He cleared his throat, setting his hands in his lap and trying to look innocent. And he did, except for the stain of hazelnut spread still on his cheek.

Grantaire bit down on his bottom lip, resisting to urge to lean in closer to Enjolras and lick the Nutella off him. That would most definitely mean he would have to talk to Enjolras about feelings and that just wouldn’t do. But feelings would be the death of him, because something propelled him to lean forward and wipe Enjolras’ cheek with his thumb, gently running his finger over one of those elegant cheekbones in the process.

“You . . . you had um, Nutella on your face.”

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t you wipe it off?” Enjolras blinked at him, saying nothing. Grantaire turned back to the crepes to hide the pinkness rapidly blooming on his cheeks.

The silence between them dragged on. Enjolras looked uncomfortable, sitting at the table and doing nothing. He was always waving his hands around dramatically or giving a speech or holding a pencil; Enjolras never just sat, and it was clear that he had no idea what to do. He set his hands on the table, folded them back in his lap, rocked his chair back and forth, the screeching driving Grantaire insane. Finally, thankfully, he leaned his arms against the table, propping his head up and just staring at Grantaire. Which was better than his fidgeting, but with piercing blue eyes like those fixed on you, discomfort comes quickly.

When Grantaire did sneak a glance at Enjolras, he realized how exhausted he looked. There were faint lines underneath his eyes and his hair was starting to frizz out of his ponytail, a sign that he had neglected his glorious curls in favor of work. He understood what Combeferre meant now, when he muttered about Enjolras never sleeping, Enjolras and his utter disregard for personal matters, Enjolras and how he was going to end up in the hospital, exhausted and dehydrated, if he didn’t stop pushing himself so hard. Combeferre complained about it, and Grantaire worried about it, but it was part of the beautiful, complex, strangely fragile enigma that was Enjolras, and so Grantaire never pushed the subject of sleeping or self-preservation too hard.

Plus, exhausted suited him well. He made the most adorable squeaking sounds when he yawned.

“I brought some French music,” Grantaire suggested, seeing that Enjolras was going to pass out before he even got time to try and kiss him. “You should put some on.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, hauling himself to his feet. “Daft Punk does not count as French music.” But he dug Grantaire’s iPod out of the backpack, thankfully ignoring the cracked screen and duct tape holding it together, scanning through the playlist Grantaire had made for the occasion. He had even called it “ _Français_ ,” to be sophisticated.

Grantaire was about to turn back to their food, realizing he was neglecting them due to Enjolras’ beauty, when Enjolras stopped scrolling and gave a little gasp.  
Which made Grantaire really, really nervous. Because he didn’t speak French, nothing more than “ _bonjour_ ” and “ _au revoir_ ” and he hadn’t bothered to translate any of the titles or lyrics, and what if they were really dirty and suggestive and . . . he would. He totally would.

“What?” he asked, flipping the crepe to hide the nerves.

In response, Enjolras plugged the iPod into Grantaire’s speakers and turned it up to maximum volume. Grantaire braced himself for some scathing comment about how he should actually think before choosing songs, but no scathing comments came. All he heard was dramatic trumpet music.

“Grantaire, why did you pick this?”

“I’m sorry!” He blurted before he could think, wondering if he could use the Nutella as a distraction again.

Enjolras’ eyebrows furrowed. He stood up, sitting on the counter next to Grantaire as he worked. He tilted his head to one side, looking like a confused puppy. “What are you sorry for? There’s nothing wrong.”

“Oh.” Oops. Grantaire offered a spoonful of Nutella again, but Enjolras pushed it away. “Okay, okay, I didn’t look up any of the lyrics before I came over here, so I was afraid that it was gonna be really dirty or sexual or something.”

Enjolras laughed, and Grantaire was certain that at least three angels fell from the heavens in jealously over the sound. “No. No, no, no, Grantaire, this is La Marseillaise.”

Now it was Grantaire’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“It’s the national anthem of France. It’s all about revolution and opposing tyranny and it’s beautiful. If I could chose a song to play every time I walked into a room, it would be this.”

(Grantaire made a mental note of that.)

He took a moment to listen, actually listen. He didn’t understood a word of what was being sung, but yet, somehow, he could hear the passion and strength behind the words, could image Frenchmen running through the streets of Paris while singing it. He saw why Enjolras liked it so much. It would be the perfect background music for chopping off heads and waving banners.

Grantaire put one of the crepes on a plate from Enjolras’ cabinet, dousing it in chocolate sauce (Enjolras was probably a crepe purist, all about lemons and sugar and nothing else, but screw that) and setting it in front of Enjolras with a dramatic bow.

The song had long ended, but Enjolras was still staring into space, chewing on his lips. His eyes looked slightly moist.

“Apollo?”

“I just want to do something significant,” Enjolras said suddenly, and his voice cracked uncharacteristically. “Like the men that the song was written about, I want to do stuff like they did. Things are so awful and I just want to change them.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Grantaire said. Because it was. Enjolras didn’t just change things, he changed everything. Not just through his petitions and rallies that he organized with the Amis de l’ABC, but though his smile, though his ever-present hope for the future. “Of course you change stuff. You changed stuff all the time. You’ve changed me. And if that doesn’t matter to you, remember that you also successfully petitioned the school board to get rid of that corrupt superintendent and you helped organize the diversity parade downtown, and the organic farmers’ market still exists because of you.”

Enjolras smiled shakily. It was the kind of smile that made Grantaire want to follow him wherever he went, because it was a weak smile, an uncertain one, but it was full of hope. “Thanks, R. Sorry. That song just makes me kind of emotional, I shouldn’t have played it.”

“It was beautiful,” Grantaire said, and he didn’t just mean the music. He meant everything about today.

They ate their crepes in silence. Grantaire had covered his with so much chocolate that the crepe was starting to turn soggy, sticking to the plate. He tried to be polite, discreet, but chocolate sauce wasn’t exactly subtle, and he ended up with it dripping down his chin like delicious blood, and Enjolras hiding laughs behind his hand.

“I bet people in France are far more sophisticated,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras handed him a paper towel.

“People in France are just people too, you know. People are just people all over the world. They’re not any better than we are. Being French or Swedish or whatever doesn’t mean that someone never makes mistakes or say regrettable things . . . or get chocolate sauce all over them.”

“But they’ve got to be better at eating crepes.”

“Because they don’t drown them in chocolate sauce!”

“Lemons and sugar, I know. You’re at elitist about a lot of things, don’t start with crepes now.”

Enjolras cut his crepe into tiny pieces, which was much cleaner but took forever, compared with Grantaire just stuffing the entire thing in his mouth. Grantaire finally got bored, pouring himself another “tacky” glass of wine and throwing himself across Enjolras’ couch.

Enjolras joined him about five seconds later, evidence that he had eaten the whole crepe when Grantaire wasn’t there to watch and judge him. He perched on the arm of the couch, putting as much space between him and Grantaire as possible. Which was nearly impossible, on such a tiny couch. If they both wanted to fit, Enjolras would practically have to sit on Grantaire’s lap, and that just wasn’t an option.

“You said you brought French films,” Enjolras said. _Films._ Grantaire chuckled to himself. The love of his life was a pretentious hipster.

“Yeah. I brought The Artist.”

Enjolras blinked at him. “The Artist?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s not French.”

“But the main guy in it had a French-ish name. And I don’t know, it looked black and white and sophisticated, so I figured it must be some artsy French movie. Film.”

Enjolras burst out laughing, letting out precious little giggles between gasps for breath. He knew Enjolras had a cute but rarely used laugh— the last time he heard a genuine laugh from Enjolras was when Courfeyrac came up with the l’abaissee pun all those years ago— and Grantaire’s heart nearly burst with the sound of it. That laugh was for him.

Enjolras nearly fell over backwards, and Grantaire grabbed his arm, keeping him on the couch. Enjolras ended up falling forward instead, landing on Grantaire in a tangle of arms. Neither of them made any move to get away from each other, although part of that might have been because Enjolras was still laughing too hard.“It’s called The Artist, Grantaire. Not Le Artiste or whatever.”

“Do you want to watch it or not?” Grantaire asked, trying to sound mad. It didn’t work, because Enjolras was freaking giggling, and his heart was about to jump out of his chest.

“Yes. Of course I’ll watch it with you.”

They set up Grantaire’s laptop on the coffee table. Grantaire found a blanket in one of the closets and attempted to casually wrap it around Enjolras as the movie began to play. Enjolras was nothing but bones, and his apartment was cold. Snuggling would have probably been more effective, but it was on Grantaire’s list of Things Not To Do.

But Enjolras nodded casually at the blanket, never looking away from the screen. “It’s a big blanket,” he said, and Grantaire gratefully took the hint.

Their arms were touching. Enjolras’ foot kept touching his. He was close enough to reach over and stick his hand into the front pocket of Enjolras’ sweatshirt, close enough to smell his shampoo. And it smelled lovely.

The Artist, Grantaire soon discovered, certainly wasn’t French, and also, it was apparently a silent film, or else the writers had been really bad at dialogue and therefore just avoided it. Which was awful, because now he and Enjolras were just staring at a screen, and the apartment was dead silent.  
Grantaire hated this kind of silence, because it made him feel like he had to say something. It was the kind of silence that made him uncomfortable to the point that just yelling out his love for Enjolras would have been less awkward. At a moment like this, he severely wished for Courfeyrac or Bahorel and their inability to stay quiet.

He thought Enjolras might have fallen asleep – he had curled his knees up against his chest, resting his head on top of them, and his hair was falling all over his face, making it impossible to tell if his eyes were open or not— before Enjolras suddenly spun around on the couch to face him, a strange urgency in his eyes. “Grantaire.”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire swallowed. Yup, this was it. He waited for Enjolras to tell him he was worthless, to yell at him to get out, to throw him out the door himself.

“You didn’t come here just to discuss France with me. Did you?”

It hurt, actually hurt, that burning look in Enjolras’ eyes. Grantaire felt that stare rip its way into his heart, tear it open and send the feelings pouring out onto the couch between them. “No. Okay, no, I didn’t, Enjolras. I came here because I thought you might like me more if I made an effort to get to know you. And then I got here, and I realized how lonely and bored you must get, but maybe not, maybe you don’t get bored, but I thought it would be nice to hang out with you and just make you happy, but I understand if you don’t want me around, plenty of other people make you happy, like Combeferre I guess, and I understand, I mean . . .”

And, before he could ramble on, Enjolras shut him up.

By kissing him.

It was soft at first, soft as the feel of Enjolras’ lips against his own chapped ones, and gentle, tentative. Sweet. And then he felt Enjolras’ tongue brushing over his lips, sneaking inside his mouth. Their tongues touched, lightly at the tips, and Grantaire was amazing that he didn’t spontaneously combust.

Enjolras was the first to pull away. He drew back slowly, and stared at Grantaire for a moment. There was no regret in his eyes, only a slightly bewildered look, as if he couldn’t fathom what he had just done.

Enjolras folded him hands in his lap, suddenly looking down at them. “ _Galocher_ ,” he said, and Grantaire frowned, thinking oh my god I broke him. “It’s the French word for kissing with the tongue. For French kissing, which is what . . .”

“I know what French kissing is,” Grantaire interrupted. “Though I wasn’t expecting that from you.”

Enjolras laced his hands together nervously. “Well, it wasn’t how I imagined our first kiss but—”

“Wait.” Grantaire put a finger to Enjolras’ lips. “You imagined our first kiss?” He could feel the blush as his hand brushed against Enjolras’ cheek, as he ran his fingers across those beautiful cheekbones because Enjolras kissed him and he could.

“I know you think that I hate you,” Enjolras said, not looking up. “Because you come to our political meetings and mock everything I say, but it’s the opposite, Grantaire, because I know it’s because you care, and if you weren’t around to point out my logical flaws, I’d have humiliated myself in public a million times already. In the end, I think you care about me more than anyone else does, and I’ve come to care about you, too. Even though you drive me crazy. But it’s a good kind of crazy. You make me happy, by showing up with French food and your presence at meeting and just be being you, Grantaire. I think you complete me.” Enjolras let out a breath when he was done, looking at Grantaire anxiously. “But, I understand if you don’t share my sentiments, of course.”

Grantaire laughed bitterly, before grabbing Enjolras by the shoulders and kissing him again. Galocher. French kissing. He didn’t care what the hell it was called, he just knew that Enjolras was kissing him and he knew that it sent shivers down his spine, and he knew that he never wanted to stop.

He wasn’t sure what this would mean, for him and Enjolras and for the future. He didn’t know if Enjolras would regret it tomorrow, or if they’d ever talk about it again. But Enjolras cared, and he would have given up all the French kisses in the world just to hear Enjolras say that again. Enjolras had cared about him all along, and that made Grantaire happier than Nutella and kisses could ever make him.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Enjolras asked once they pulled away from each other, both with messed up hair and wrinkled shirts. The movie had long been forgotten, and even the wine sat untouched in the kitchen. “I mean, I don’t think I have much food, but we could go out?”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, kissing Enjolras on the forehead. “ _Oui, oui, oui_.”  
 

* * *

  
After dinner, after another bottle of wine and some awkward talk about their feelings, they went back to Enjolras’ for tea, and to finish the argument they were having over the financial crisis. Of course they were arguing. Of course they would never be perfect. Of course Grantaire would brace himself for Enjolras ignoring him and pretending the kissing never happened. Of course Enjolras would probably get mad at him next time he made some drunken remark at one of the meetings.

But maybe not. If Enjolras’ smile was anything to go by, the future was looking very, very beautiful.

Enjolras eventually fell asleep on the couch while watching the news on the laptop, curled up against Grantaire with his head falling to his shoulder, the golden curls splayed across his tee shirt.

“You can stay,” he murmured, when Grantaire shifted to get up. And so Grantaire stayed, drifting to sleep with one arm around Enjolras, humming La Marseillaise.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a truly awful French kissing experience I had, so you can thank my awkwardness for this. And I got the title from that Aaron Tveit interview where he says the way you pronounce Enjolras is with "that French thing" or something along the lines of that; I was really too distracted by his face too notice what he was saying. Annnd I'm on tumblr at lamarque-getset-go and we should be friends. That is all.


End file.
